The Deadly Cosmetic Procedure

In the deathly silent ward, only the sound of the ventilator could be heard. Outside in the corridor, the doctor couldn't help but sigh in amazement.

"You already have a family of your own. Why go to such lengths for Zoe? What are you hoping to gain?"

Leonard Gallagher's expression was devout, his smile tinged with self-mockery.

"As long as she's happy, I will give up everything. She is my goddess. How could I ever defile her?"

The doctor offered a kind reminder. "Mrs. Gallagher is pregnant. A large-scale skin graft could lead to severe bleeding, and if anything goes wrong, it could be fatal.

"Besides, most victims suffer from psychological distress, sometimes even suicidal tendencies. She underwent two facial grafts in three years. I'm afraid that she may never live an average life again.

"We strongly recommend taking skin from Zoe's own back instead. The risk of rejection would be lower, and her recovery much faster."

Leonard interrupted hastily, his voice firm, "The skin on back is too rough. It wouldn't suit her. I won't allow a single scar to mar her body!

"Zoe loves looking beautiful. The last time she botched a double-eyelid surgery, she nearly set herself on fire in despair. Fortunately, it was just a minor burn. If I hadn't suggested a skin graft, she might never have recovered from the trauma. How could I risk putting her through that again?"

The doctor let out a sigh.

"It would be best to wait until after Mrs. Gallagher gives birth. Her chances of survival would be much higher. But with another disfigurement on top of postpartum depression, any woman would struggle to bear it."

A hint of smugness flickered in Leonard's eyes. "My love is enough to bring her back to life. I will protect both her and our child."

Tears streamed down my face, rolling past my ears. Then, suddenly, a sharp pain flared up.

The skin that the doctor had just removed was merely a trial run for my sister, Zoe Lore's facial graft. Even though it was the second time, he still wasn't at ease.

I staggered to the floor-to-ceiling window, desperate to see my own reflection.

Fireworks bloomed outside, casting light onto the glass.

There, I saw them—eight neat, evenly spaced scars on my thighs…

If I counted carefully, I had collapsed precisely eight times in the past three years of my marriage. The soft, flawless skin I once had had become a gift Leonard presented to Zoe.

The only untouched part of me was my belly, now stretched and scarred with pregnancy marks.

To replace Zoe's burnt skin, he had destroyed my face. He knew full well who had started that fire.

He knew that the 600ml of blood she received had been mine. It was drawn only after I knelt and begged the nurse. And yet, he still gave my father's final hope to someone who had been set on dying.

Three years ago, my father died. I thought that I had found salvation in this marriage. I foolishly licked my wounds in the illusion of safety. But three years later, it was finally my turn.

In the mirror, the freshly healed skin on my face still bore faint traces of the sutures from three years ago.

When my baby was born and saw its mother wrapped in bandages, would it cry in fear?

I forgot about the pain and clawed at my face with all my strength.

Leonard arrived at some point. He grabbed my wrist with one hand and instantly yanked the curtains shut with the other. His grip was so tight that I gasped in pain, and only then did he loosen his hold in a panic.

"Don't scratch your face. It hurts me to see you like this. Didn't we agree that you shouldn't look in the mirror until you're completely healed?

"If you really want to see yourself, just look into my eyes. In them, you will always be the most beautiful."

He had fooled me with such tender, deceptive words a thousand times. But eyes wouldn't lie. As I gazed into them, I knew that I had no place in his heart. What he cherished all along was never me but my flesh.

I refused to give up. Through choked sobs, I asked, "And if I were disfigured again?"

"I would simply have to take extra care of you. How could a husband ever grow tired of his own wife?"

His words were airtight, but he never denied my suspicion. In his heart, he had already agreed to Zoe's request.

He carried me back to the bed, not wasting a second before pressing an ice-cold towel to my skin.

Drowsiness overtook me, and just before I drifted off, I heard him murmur, "Zoe, I will keep your things safe for you. Just wait three more months."

The moment he finished speaking, fireworks burst outside the window, spelling out a single name—"Zoe".